Page 59 of Faking Summer
His voice when he finally spoke was calm laced with something darker. "Can you sit with Sam for a minute?" he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.
"What are you going to do?"
He didn't answer immediately, the muscles along his jaw continued clenching and unclenching. I was seeing a new side of him. The embodiment of the night itself—mysterious, protective, and undeniably magnetic.
"I'll handle it," he promised, the quiet intensity in his words sending a shiver through me.
I reached out, my fingers grazing his arm, his sweatshirt doing little to mask the raw power that was beneath. "Don't—don't do anything," I stammered. "It was my fault. I flirted with him in the past... I gave him the wrong impression."
"Listen to me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "This was not your fault. This is on me—he came after you because of something between him and I. You did nothing wrong, and you sure as hell didn’t deserve this. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," I whispered, barely trusting my voice.
"Wait here for me," Reese said then, his hands gentle as they guided me down into the stool next to Sam.
I couldn't help but notice his stillness. It was the deceptive calmness that was almost scary, a dangerous undercurrent that ran beneath the surface of his collected exterior. But those eyes of his said it all. He was about to obliterate everything and anything in his path.
Sam's concerned gaze flickered to Reese, her lips parting as if to speak but no words came.
Reese’s hand rose slowly as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, letting it settle over his dark hair. With the hood casting his face into inscrutable depths, he shot someone a barely perceptible nod. Two of his teammates acknowledged with a slight dip of their heads as they fell into step beside him.
I watched, my breath held in captivity, as they made their way toward Wells. I knew Reese—he was relentless. But it was his stillness that spoke loudest. It was the calm before the storm; a chilling prelude to the damage he could do.
Wells, still pale from our earlier encounter, seemed to shrink back as they approached, his features contorting in dawning realization. He was about to face the consequences of his actions, at the wrath of a man whose protective instincts were as fierce as they were unforgiving.
Reese said something to Wells before they walked out the back door, and his teammates stood at the back entrance after them, protecting the scene like armed guards.
twenty-four
Reese
The vulnerability in her blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, her panic struck at me harder than any curveball ever could. Someone had hurt her, put tears in her eyes—by the fire that had begun to simmer in my blood, they would pay for that.
"What do you want, man?" Wells asked, shrugging like I had no reason to drag him out here.
The anger was definitely there, almost like it was living and breathing inside me. But I held it in check, my jaw so tight I could feel the throb of my pulse in my teeth.
"Round two, I guess," I said, my steps measured as I closed the distance.
Wells' eyes narrowed, uncertainty passing over his face as I moved closer. The dim light from the back door flickered across his face as the moment of realization and fear crossed him, making me grin.
"What are you doing?" he asked as I dropped the amusement in my smile and reached out, pressing him up against the back wall. My hand found his neck, fingers pressing just enough to remind him ofwho I was.
I could only assume one would not like this. The same way Caroline had felt when he’d done this to her. I could almost taste the rage surging forward at the thought of her—blue eyes wide and defiant but terrified. That image played in my mind.
"Easy," I whispered through gritted teeth. "Do you understand what 'no' means, Clark?"
He squirmed under the grip of my hand, his fingers clawing at my wrist in desperation as he forced out his words. "Are you talking about that bitch, Caroline?"
"Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is?" I said, trying to understand the unfathomable stupidity going on in his mind.
"If that's your girl and you let her out of the house dressed like a slut, then something is wrong with you." His eyes darted toward the bar's exit, perhaps hoping for an escape or someone to save him.
"You want to know why I'd never tell Caroline how to dress?" I grinned, slow and patient.
His breath was ragged, his eyes searching mine for mercy that he wasn't going to get. "Because," he gasped, "you have no control over her."
Control? No, this wasn't about control. It was about respecting her and whatever the fuck she wanted to wear—something Clark clearly knew nothing about. Tonight she was wearing jean shorts and a crop top. But even if she was walking around in lingerie because thats what she wanted to do, then so fucking be it.
